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PS 3525 
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1922 
Copy 1 




REHEARSAL 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 



By CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 



REHEARSAL 

A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 



By CHRISTOPHER MORLEY 






^ 






© 



K 



V 



Characters 

Freda The Director 

Christine 

Barbara 

Gertrude 

SONIA 

Marjorie The Stage Carpenter 

and Property Man 



.The Players 



COPTBIGHT, 1922, BY FbaNK ShaT. 

All rights reserved. 

No performance of this play, either amateur or professional, may be given except by 
special arrangement with the author, who may be addressed in care of the Evening Post 
20 Vesey Street, New York City. 



C1A683539 
SEP 25 1922 



REHEARSAL 

Scene. Rehearsal of a play to be given by a college dramatic 
club. 

This is, as far as the setting is concerned, the easiest play to 
produce that you ever heard of. It requires only a bare stage, 
several plain chairs ajid a small table. Whatever is the natural 
and unadorned condition of your stage, leave it so. Nor are any 
special costumes necessary: the characters may attire themselves 
as suits their fancy and condition in life. The scene represents 
a rehearsal of an amateur play — I mean, a play performed by 
amateurs. As a matter of fact, the play they are at work on is 
supposed to be one of those Irish peasantry things. I have 
imagined the characters as being college girls, in whom is ap- 
parent that pleasing mixture of hilarity and importance char- 
acteristic of the sex in youth. However, it being to the author s 
interest that this play should be performed as frequently as 
possible, I will remark that by the change of a word or so here 
and there it is equally valid for girls' schools, or clubs of high- 
spirited ladies. 

The house lights having been turned off, and the footlights on, 
as usual, the audience, eager to be entertained, attentively waits 
the rise of the curtain. But before the curtain goes up, the gutter 
is again darkened; so that for a moment the audience thinks 
some mistake has been made. This impression is perhaps con- 
firmed when the curtain immediately rises upon the naked stage, 
which is adequately lit from above, but seems rather gloomy 
without the usual shine of the footlights. 

Enter Freda, the director and manager, a brisk young person 
who enjoys her responsibility and takes it seriously. She 
carries a typescript, which she lays on the table at the front of the 
stage, — the sacred little table which still holds an empty jug and a 
glass to remind one that not long ago some British celebrity spent 



340 REHEARSAL 



a happy evening lecturing there. Freda moves the table to one 
side, and rapidly begins to arrange the chairs {which are stand- 
ing in a row at the back) in a calculated pattern. She puts 
four of them close together toward the back of the stage; and two, 
a little distance apart, one behind the other, toward the right 
side; two, similarly, toward the left. Two or three chairs she 
places with thoughtful precision in other places within the area 
thus marked out. 

Enter Christine, Barbara, and Sonia, all carrying scripts. 
FREDA. Hullo, Where's Gertrude? 
CHRISTINE. She'll be here, I guess. 
FREDA. She'd better be, or I'll get some one else to do her 

part. She doesn't seem to realize we've got to play this 

thing a week from to-night. 
BARBARA. Horrid thought ! 
FREDA. Well, while we await the prima donna, let's get to 

work. Now you know your lines, we can develop some 

business. 
SONIA. I wish you'd picked out some other play; this is so 

dreadfully gloomy. It'll put the audience into a morbid 

melancholy. 
CHRISTINE. Yes, and there's some pretty strong stuff in it, 

too. My father and mother are going to be here, and 

really, I think one ought to be careful about saying some 

of these things before parents — 
FREDA. You ought to be glad it's gloomy. People don't 

respect you if you play comedy. This kind of thing is 

much more artistic. Besides, don't blame me. The 

Professor of English Literature chose it; I didn't. 
CHRISTINE. I know — but just looking at things from the 

parents' standpoint, English Literature is awfully out- 
spoken sometimes. 
SONIA. I'm glad my people live so far away there's no 

chance of their coming to the show. 
BARBARA. Think of me, I have to play the stricken old 

father, brooding over his shame. You try being a stricken 

old father — 



REHEARSAL 341 



FREDA. Come now, we're wasting time. 

[Enter Marjorie, carrying a hammer, a paint pot and brush, 
electric bulbs, a roll of canvas and a dingy old suit of masculine 
garments. 

MARJORIE. Look here, what the deuce am I going to do for 
'moonhght through cottage window'.'' I can't get an arc 
Hght anywhere. D'you suppose ordinary frosted bulbs 
will do.'' 

FREDA. Don't bother me. That's your affair. Lord knows 
I've got enough to manage. 

MARJORIE. Well, will these do for the stricken old father? 
[Holds out horrible old trousers and coat. 

FREDA. Hurrah! Just the thing. {Takes trousers and holds 
them against Barbara, who views them with much distaste) 
A perfect fit ! 

BARBARA. Have I got to wear those things? 

MARJORIE. I got them from the janitor. 

FREDA. Better put them on right away, and get used to 
them. 
[Barbara shudders. 

MARJORIE. Yes, atmosphere, local color — 

BARBARA. From the local colored man. No thanks. 
[She deposits trousers gingerly at one side of stage. 
Enter Gertrude, carrying script. 

GERTRUDE. Sorry to be late. 

[Marjorie goes rear of stage, and occupies herself quietly with 
paint and canvas while the rehearsal proceeds. 

FREDA. All right, now we can go ahead. I've put these 
chairs to show essentials of scenery. These (indicating 
chairs at the back) are the hearth. This (to two chairs at 
one side) is a door; this (to tivo chairs on other side) is 
another door. This (to another chair, toward the rear) is 
the window where the moonlight comes in. And here 
(to another chair) is the wheel-chair where the stricken old 
parent sits disconsolate. 

CHRISTINE. There are going to be some stricken parents in 
the audience, too. 



342 REHEARSAL 



FREDA {ignoring her). Now get the scene well in mind. 
{Reads from her script) "A poor cottage in the Irish bogs. 
At the back, a faint glimmer of a scanty fire of peat on the 
hearth, with a pile of kelp drying beside it." 

MARJORiE. Where am I going to get any kelp? What is 
kelp, anyway? 

FREDA. Seaweed. 

MARJORIE. I wonder if spinach would be all right? 

FREDA {continues to read). "Through rear window, a clear 
beam of moonlight. In a wheel-chair by a lamp sits 
Shawn O'Connell, a stricken old man, reading the Bible. 
The setting indicates an atmosphere of extreme wretched- 
ness and misery. From the shadows near the hearth, where 
Norah has flung herself prostrate in despair, comes an 
occasional low keening." 

{Christine and Sonia look humorously at Gertrude, who plays 
the part of Norah) 
Are you ready? Places! 

{Barbara sits down in one of the chairs; Gertrude, with a 
shame-faced air, lies down on the chairs assembled at the 
back. Christine and Sonia retire to one side of the stage, off 
the chair-marked area, and solemnly consult their scripts. 
Freda sits down at the little table, on the other side of the 
stage) 
Curtain ! 

{There is a short pause, while Barbara gazes pensively at her 
hands, which she holds spread to represent a large book. 
Gertrude utters a low moan. It is not a success) 
You'll have to keen better than that. Throw a little 
agony into it. 

GERTRUDE {sits up). Can't we have the footlights on? I 
can do much better then. It seems to make it more real. 

FREDA. Good idea. Chris, switch 'em on. 

{Christine exit. The footlights go on, and Christine returns) 
We've got to get into the spirit of this thing. Try 
to imagine the audience out there. {She waves toward the 
auditorium) Imagine the place crowded with intelligent 



REHEARSAL 343 



faces — proud parents, interested friends, hopeful young 

men — 
BARBARA. I'm damned if I want to wear trousers before a 

mixed audience — 
FREDA. Don't be so mid-Woodrovian. Look here, I told 

you to bring something to use as a Bible. What did you 

make me director for if you're not going to obey orders? 

Wait a minute, I'll find something. 

[She rushes off. 
GERTRUDE. Tell me if this sounds any better. 

[She utters several throbbing tremulous wails. 
CHRISTINE, Somehow it doesn't seem to carry conviction. 
SONIA. You must try to imagine terrible things. Imagine 

you've flunked Physics. 
GERTRUDE. The trouble is, it's so hard to find any place to 

practice keening. I tried it in my room late at night, and 

the watchman sent for a doctor. 
MARJORIE. I wish Freda wouldn't insist on that moonlight. 
GERTRUDE. I simply can't keen in cold blood. It'll be all 

right when the audience is here. 
SONIA. You're too self-conscious. You'll never be a great 

actress. 
GERTRUDE. You'd be self-conscious too if you had to play 

this part before parents and younger brothers. 
CHRISTINE. Younger brothers are the devil. They're as 

bad as Doctor Freud. 
SONIA. Write and tell them there's smallpox in town. 

[Reenter Freda, carrying large telephone directory. 
FREDA (to Barbara) . Here you are — the Telephone Book. 

It's the only thing I could find. Come now, Places! 
BARBARA (produccs a clay pipe). I thought that if I used 

this pipe, it would help me to get the illusion. 

[Puts it in her mouth and sits down with the directory. 
FREDA. Curtain ! 

[Barbara sits in the "wheel-chair", turning over the leaves of 

the directory, and awkwardly holding the pipe in her mouth. 

Gertrude is lying, face down, with her head buried in her arms. 



344 REHEARSAL 



on the chairs at the hack. She utters a dire dreadful moaning 
occasionally. 

BARBARA. Has Herself come yet? 

GERTRUDE (sobbing) . Not yet. Nor never will, I'm thinking. 

BARBARA {grav ly, with the tremulous voice of old age, but having 
great trouble to keep the pipe in her mouth while she speaks). 
Fifty year and five it is that I'm living in this place, and 
never before now did shame come down upon the home of 
the O'Connell. 

(Gertrude utters only a low wail) 

Be leaving off your keening, my girl, I'll be having no 
stomach to my supper. Is that broth cooked? 

GERTRUDE {gcts up languidly and pretends to look at the hearth). 
No, father. 

BARBARA. Comc away out of the darkness now, and let me 
be seeing you. 

{Gertrude comes forward, slowly and shamefully, and crouches 
at Barbara's feet. Barbara tries to light her pipe) 
See how all the names are written here in the Book — 
names of the O'Connell, all numbered in the Good 
Book. {Christine and Sonia cannot restrain a giggle) 
Thirteen childer and never a word of shame agin one of 
them. Francey, Padraic, Finn, Bridget, Cathleen, Dennis. 
Think of Dennis, now, who killed three Englishmen in one 
Sunday. This has been a proud house, surely. 

GERTRUDE. I'm thinking that the broth will soon be ready, 
father. 

BARBARA. God be praised, I'm after keeping my appetite 
in spite of all this sorrow. {Points to page in the book) 
Thirteen childer, six dead of the bog fever, three drowned 
in the fishing, two in jail for the republic, one gone to 
America — all numbered in the Book. 

CHRISTINE {to Sonia). Call Columbus 8200. 

FREDA {angrily). Shhhh! 

BARBARA {in her own voice). I've forgotten my lines. It 
isn't fair of the author to give any one a speech as long as 
this one. 



REHEARSAL 345 



GERTRUDE. It doesn't matter. The audience never listens 
to the first five minutes. They're busy cUmbing over 
each other's feet. 

FREDA (rapping on table). How do you expect to get this 
thing across if you make a joke out of it.'' 

BARBARA. I simply can't talk with this pipe in my mouth. 
It's funny — I've often seen men do it. 

FREDA {reading from her script). "I am an old man — " 

BARBARA. Oh, ycs. {Resuiues her part) I am an old man, 
and shamed in my own house. I am after looking for the 
third chapter of Isaiah. Does Isaiah come ajter Jeremiah 
or before it? I never can remember. 

GERTRUDE. Yourself had thirteen childer, father, and if 
only one goes to hell, it's no bad proportion at all — 

BARBARA. Whisht, whislit, Norah — is it the Bad Place 
Yourself is speaking of? Don't be naming that place 
to an old stricken man that maybe will have had 
sins of his own to be shriven. It's perished with 
hunger I am. 

GERTRUDE (rises, goes to chairs at the back and stoops over the 
imaginary fire). Which is it that is troubling you more, 
father; the shame or the supper? 

BARBARA (absently turning over pages of the directory). The 
third chapter of Isaiah. There's something about mantles 
and wimples and crisping pins. 

GERTRUDE. Crisping pins, is it? Devil a crisping pin did 
I ever see in this house. 

BARBARA (reads). "Because the daughters of Zion walk 
with Stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and 
mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their 
feet. . . . the Lord will take away the bravery of their 
tinkling ornaments . . . the chains and the bracelets and 
the mufflers, the bonnets and the ornaments of the legs 
. . . the rings and nose jewels, the changeable suits of 
apparel, and the mantles and the wimples and the crisp- 
ing pins. . . . And it shall come to pass, that instead of 
sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of well-set 



346 REHEARSAL 



hair baldness; and instead of a stomacher — " — Sure, 
Norah, isn't that broth ready? 

GERTRUDE. Here it is, father. 

[Comes forward, carrying an imaginary bowl, which she sets 
down on an imaginary table beside Barbara, and pretends to 
set out imaginary dishes, spoons, etc. 

FREDA (interrupting). That's rotten! Barbara, you've got 
to be more tragic. Read that with more feehng. 

BARBARA. I don't Hkc reading the Old Testament. It's — 
well, it's so vulgar — 

FREDA (going to her). Let me show you how that ought to 
go. Remember you're a broken old man. (Takes the 
directory and sits down in Barbara's chair; assumes a 
quavering and senile solemnity, and pretends to read from 
the book, improvising the speech from memory) Because 
the daughters of Zion walk with stretched forth legs and 
wanton stomachers the Lord will take away John J. 
Wimple plumber and steamfitter and instead of crisping 
pins there shall be Henry Wiesenfeldt Audubon 6543. 
(Rises) There, do you see? More pathos! 

MARJORiE. Just a minute! I hadn't heard about all these 
mufflers and wimples and crisping pins — they aren't 
actual props, are they? 

GERTRUDE. No, uo, you poor fish. They're only mentioned. 

MARJORIE. Well, how was I to know? Freda never gave 
me a copy of the script to look over. If anything goes 
wrong, it won't be my fault. 

FREDA. Attention, please! Now go on with it from there. 
[Barbara resumes her place in the chair. 

BARBARA. Where were we? These interruptions get my 
goat. 

FREDA. "Here it is, father." 

GERTRUDE. Here it is, father. (Again brings imaginary 
soup from the rear, and serves it as before. Barbara pretends 
to spoon it up with gusto) Leave off feeding till I fix your 
napkin. Herself might be coming in, and you wouldn't 
want to be all speckled with the soup — 



REHEARSAL 347 



BARBARA. There's darker stains than spilHng a Httle broth 
on your breastbone. Yourself might be thinking of the 
daughters of Zion. 

GERTRUDE. Perhaps the daughters of Zion were not brought 
up all alone in the bogs, with no company but the moon- 
light and an old man dripping his soup. It's more of soup 
you are thinking than of salvation. Surely it's bitter. 

BARBARA {after a pause). It is bitter. You've maybe 
dropped some of the kelp in it. (A pause) I'll be telling 
you the truth, I'm destroyed altogether with thirst. If 
you'd be slipping over to the shebeen to bring me a dram — 

GERTRUDE (goes to the chair that represents a window, and 
pretends to look out). Here comes Herself now, God help 
us, and a foreigner with her. Be easy and go on with your 
supper. I'll be passing into the loft. (She starts to the 
chair-doorway, right, and then impulsively returns to Barbara. 
Piteously) Oh, Daddy, you'll not be thinking too hard 
of your Norah? 

BARBARA {still eating). It's grand fine soup. 
''(Gertrude goes through chair-doorway, right, and stands near 
Freda. Christine and Sonia come to chair-doorway, left, and 
Sonia taps on the stage with her foot, to represent knocking 
at the door) 

Who's that, God help us? (Christine and Sonia enter) 
Ah, it's yourself, Mrs. O'Toole, and a foreigner with you. 

CHRISTINE. Yes. An English lady, God help her. 

BARBARA. Comc in and be set. 

CHRISTINE. Surely it's quare and cold to-night, Shawn, 
and the bogs in the moonshine as white as soap. 

BARBARA. Ycs, I've finished my soup, thank you kindly. 

CHRISTINE. A sorrowful night to be lying drowned in the 
bogs, I'm thinking. I mind the time when Katie 
^P'Shaughnessy perished herself in the marsh. She floated 
face under, God help her, and they said it was because she 
was ashamed to look her Maker in the face. Indeed I 
don't wonder, with nothing on her but a shift. 

BARBARA. The men folk float face upwards, Mrs. O'Toole. 



348 REHEARSAL 



CHRISTINE. To be sure you ought to know the rights of it, 
what with three sons floating in at the high tide. {To 
Sonia) We waked them all together, and Father Daly 
ran short on candles. 

SONIA. Mr. O'Connell, I'm afraid I have dreadful news for 
you — 

BARBARA. Indeed, Ma'am, bad news is an old friend in this 
house of shame. (Plaintively) If I had a drop of spirits 
it would be a consolation. 

FREDA (interrupting). Fine! That's fine! (The actors re- 
lax, and stand at ease) I don't think your Irish brogue is 
very good, but you're beginning to get the spirit of the 
thing. 

CHRISTINE. Yes, if we can do it hke this I think the audience 
ought to be sufficiently depressed. 

FREDA. We won't need to go over the part where the young 
Englishman's body is brought in, and Norah commits 
suicide. By the way, Marjorie, what are you going to do 
for the young Englishman's body? 

MARJORIE. Oh, I'm going to play that myself. My only 
chance of glory. 

FREDA. All right, then — we'll take it again from the be- 
ginning down to where Sonia and Christine come in. 

SONIA. I don't think that's fair. You never give me a 
chance to rehearse the only decent bit I have. 

BARBARA. Oh, rot, Sonia ! Your stuff is a cinch. You 
don't even have to talk Irish. 

GERTRUDE. Ycs, for Hcavcn's sake let's do that first part 
again while we've got it hot. If I don't get used to watch- 
ing Barbara I shall burst into yells of laughter — 

BARBARA. Considering I have the rottenest part in the whole 
show, I think I do fairly well. 

SONIA. Some people are certainly hard to please. Your 
part is the only one with a chance for any real acting. 
Pretty fat, I call it. 

CHRISTINE. I agree with Sonia. We ought to rehearse the 
last half as often as we can. That bit where I have to 



REHEARSAL 349 



break the news to the old man needs some doing. That 

seems to me the real crux of the play, and I don't feel at 

all sure of it yet. 
MARJORiE. I thought you were going to check up that list 

of props with me. Here I've been hanging around — 
FREDA. Ye gods, you girls think of no one but yourselves. 

Can't you forget your own parts for a moment and think 

of the good of the show? 
SONIA. I don't care, you've skimped my part right along, 

and never give me a decent chance to rehearse. I know 

damn well you want me to flivver — 
BARBARA. Sonia can have my part whenever she wants it. 

I'm fed up with the stricken old parent and his house of 

shame — 
GERTRUDE (looking at her wrist watch). Well, what's the 

dope? I haven't got all day — 
MARJORIE. You people make me tired. All wanting to 

grab off the footlight stuff. Suppose some of you lend me 

a hand in building the scenery. 
FREDA (angrily). Who's directing this play, I'd like to 

know? You put it up to me, didn't you? Somebody's 

got to run things — 
CHRISTINE. It was asiuine to pick out a fool play like this. 

Why not something with some fun in it ? 
FREDA. Who ever heard of a one-act play with any fun in 

it? They don't write 'em. A one-act play has to be 

artistic — 
SONIA. All I can say is, I hate to see an innocent audience 

suffer. 
GERTRUDE. I know I'll nevcr be able to live down this house 

of shame business with my young brothers. They'll be 

kidding me about it for the next five years. 
SONIA. Come on now, all together — can't we do something 

else instead? Honestly, Freda, we'd rehearse all night 

for the next week if you'll choose something really decent — 
FREDA. Don't be absurd. The announcements have gone 

out. 



350 REHEARSAL 



SONIA. I bet the damn thing will be a hideous failure — 
FREDA. Now let's be sensible. I know exactly how you all 
feel. Putting on a play is just like going to the dentist — 
the worst part is beforehand. When the fatal evening 
comes, no one will suspect the agony we've been through. 
I bet the house will give us a big hand — even the younger 
brothers. 
BARBARA. Freda's right. Come on, children, a little cour- 



age 



FREDA. We'll do the second part of the play at the next 
rehearsal. This time we'd better stick to what we've 
been doing, and get it set. Places! 

BARBARA. Give the stricken old father time to light his pipe. 
[As she fumbles with the pipe, the others take their positions — 
Freda at the little table; Marjorie at the rear; Christine and 
Sonia down-stage, left; Gertrude on the chairs toward the 
back; and Barbara then sits down with the telephone directory. 

FREDA. Curtain ! 

[And, as Barbara turns over the leaves of the book, and 
' Gertrude utters her first "keen", the curtain falls. 



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